The Wizard of Karres

Later, when she was called on to describe the event, the Leewit hit on it perfectly. 'Imagine the biggest, messiest kids' party ever. Times ten.'

* * *

The captain was amazed at the number of little vatches who came. Still, there was enough dream-candy for all of them to gorge on. Which, they did, except for Silver-eyes. That little vatch—not quite so little, anymore—was too wary to do more than nibble a bit. So Silver-eyes amused itself with canape bombing runs. There were entire buffets full of ammunition.

Only one of the Nanite-possessed came close to them. Pul bit him. It was not a pretty sight. One of the bodyguards dragged the writhing man away.

You could tell who the infected ones were, without Pul's help. They were the ones collapsing all over the place. The rest were screaming and running around in the food-fight and practical joke session to end all food fight and practical joke sessions. Admittedly, the victims weren't enjoying it much, but none of them was going to end up dead, which was what the captain had rather expected after the experiences in Nartheby. They just looked like the victims of canape carpet bombing.

The Leewit stood it as long she could. Then she grabbed a platter of the stickiest canapes and announced to the captain that she was going to join in. 'No fair that the stinkin' vatches have all the fun!'

The captain grinned. 'Why not? You will never get such a chance again. Food fight at the Imperial gala event of the year.'

Pul had walked cautiously over to one of the collapsed figures. Sniffed. 'No live ones!' he growled in his gravel-crusher voice. 'The human is still alive, though he won't be for long.'

'They have to be alive!' said the Empress, turning pale. 'If they don't appear on the balcony at midnight, we'll have panic across the Empire. Insurrections. War.'

Why did it never get any simpler?

'Let's examine him,' said the captain. 'Maybe . . .' He and the bodyguard hauled the courtier into the alcove. He was breathing normally, although his pulse was racing.

He was also deeply unconscious. It was obvious to Pausert that there would be no way to simply prop him up on the balcony and fool anyone into thinking he was anything but comatose.

A man in evening dress walked over. 'Good evening, Captain,' said Sedmon. 'Your Highness.'

The Empress had retreated behind her two bodyguards. 'Who is this, Captain?'

'The Daal of Uldune, ma'am,' said the captain. He decided there was no point in explaining that it was actually one-sixth of the Daal.

Sedmon bowed. 'Hulik wants to know whether you need assistance. The artistes of the Petey B are ready to intervene. Although, it appears that what is really being affronted out there is dignity.' He looked at the chaos, and smiled wryly. 'We've noted that Uldune wants no part in a fight with the witches of Karres, if this is what the three of you alone can do.'

'Unless they want to get in the middle of this mess, I think not. Dame Ethy would never forgive us for getting pink turofish mousse on the costumes. We need to get these men back to their senses by midnight, Sedmon. Give that appearance, at least.'

Sedmon looked thoughtful. 'Or Uldune is in a remarkable position to possibly profit,' said the descendant of the pirate overlords urbanely. 'Not everyone will miss the Empire, Captain.'

Captain Pausert realized it was up to him, again. But the gambler's certainty was back.

'I would,' he said firmly. 'Not the Empire as such, Sedmon. But the stability and peace it brings to ordinary people's lives. We're not going to start the war years, war centuries again. And before you think of taking advantage of the situation—I suggest you remember just who you are dealing with. Karres is not destroyed or even gone for long. I'll have your cooperation or Uldune will be fighting the witches of Karres. Look around you and be warned. This is what we do in mere play. Don't make us do things in earnest. Now, tell the other Sedmon that we need Dame Ethy to go through her wardrobes for regal gear. She and her troupe are about to play the role of their lives. In the case of Richard Cravan, an Imperial one.'

Then he walked out onto the ballroom floor, accompanied by Goth. He clapped his hands. Vatches began swarming around him. All of them were tiny, but there were so many they seemed like a curtain of impossible blackness.

The party is over. Thank you all for coming. Please come again. Now go home.

The vatchlets squawked vehement protest. Pausert began forming vatch hooks. Great, big, glowing, terrible vatch hooks. That had the same salutary effect on the vatchlets as a father brandishing a great big terrible leather belt before his human brats.

Quickly, the blackness receded.

Silence settled over the ruined ballroom. And then the orchestra, those who still had whole instruments, began to play of all things, an ancient lullaby.

The Empress took off her mask and walked up onto the dais. She held up her hands to hush the crowd. The hysterical panic-filled babble subsided as they turned to stare at Empress Hailie.

'My lords and ladies. Control yourselves,' she said, firmly. 'We have an Empire to save. We have the Imperial appearance to make at midnight. If it doesn't happen, you know what the consequences are sure to be. So. Masks off, courtiers! And to work. If the Emperor himself isn't fit to appear on that balcony . . . I'll find someone else to stand in his shoes for the night, and wear the crown and wave to his people. But the people of the Empire will see what they expect to see. The Empire will go on. Then, when that is dealt with, we'll put things to rights here.'

* * *

Dame Ethulassia finally got both the audience and the applause she'd always craved. Richard Cravan found himself wearing Imperial regalia, and playing the role of a lifetime. In later years it was said that was the Winter Canival when the Emperor had given his most regal speech ever.

Though the Leewit didn't think so. 'Clumping stupid, you ask me! There wasn't any wind blowing at all. And even if there had been, he didn't have to say that crude stuff about wind cracking its cheeks.' The Leewit was genuinely affronted. 'Huh! It's not fair. If I'd said it, you'd be washing my mouth out with soap.'

 

 

Epilogue

Things still had to carry on, and be finished off.

Hantis, however, wouldn't be part of it. She was dead keen to leave for Nartheby. 'I have a great deal to rebuild. A great deal of history to see revisited. I made an arrangement with my ancestor before we left. He's hidden all his records in a secret chamber under the seat of Justice in Aloorn. Someone is finally about to receive the honor he deserved.'

The captain realized just how closely they had been monitored—somehow, presumably with yet another branch of klatha he hadn't explored—when, a few minutes after the midnight ceremony, a delegation of witches arrived in the banquet hall. Pausert had no idea how they'd gotten there. There'd been none of the telltale signs of the Egger Route.

There was a lot of hugging as Toll was reunited with her daughters. Pausert was grateful to see that his great uncle Threbus had come to take control of the situation. Among those the witches had brought with them were a squad of healers, such as the Leewit would be one day. They took charge of the unconscious victims of the Nanite plague.

'It appears that the Petey B's thespian troupe will have to remain here for some years,' said Threbus later, as he and Pausert walked in the cool green gardens of the Empress-Regent's palace. 'To keep the masquerade going until Amra is old enough to ascend the throne herself.'

Pausert winced. 'No hope of saving any of the people infected?'

Threbus shrugged. 'A few—those who were infected at the carnival itself. But not all that many. It doesn't take long for the mind of the victim to be wrecked beyond repair.'

Pausert wasn't really surprised. He tried to find what comfort there was. 'Well, I guess that means Cravan